


One of Those Initiations

by complexphoenix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Double Anal Penetration, Double Oral Penetration, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Gangbang, Group Sex, Hazing, Kingsguard, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgy, Pre - Robert's Rebellion, Rare Pairings, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/complexphoenix/pseuds/complexphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jaime joins the Kingsguard, his new brothers initiate him into the order with a gangbang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of Those Initiations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/gifts).



The Lord Commander's chambers are a beautiful place, Jaime thinks. Especially the great shield-shaped table at which the Kingsguard assembles for meetings, him there for the first time. Ser Gerold sits at the head; Ser Arthur Dayne sits to Ser Gerold's left, and Jaime sits beside him. On the other side Lewyn Martell, Jonothor Darry, and Oswell Whent are seated. Six white swordbelts hang on the wall. It would have been preferable for Ser Barristan to join them as well, but that could not be. King Aerys will never allow himself to go without a white knight, not even for a minute, and so someone has to miss the meeting.

“Ser Arthur.” Ser Gerold begins, after everyone is settled. “I wish to remind you that it is not your place to berate the crown prince, even if he _has_ done something stupid. Your only job is to protect him.”

“Can I not protect him from himself?” Ser Arthur offers Ser Gerold a significant look. “Did you not see the look on Brandon Stark's face? Rhaegar put himself in danger with that particular stunt.”

Ser Gerold shakes his head. “You swore to guard him, not to judge him. And our oath stipulates that we are to obey, and to offer our counsel when it is requested and keep silent when it is not. Is that understood?”

Ser Arthur backs down. “Yes, Lord Commander.”

“And Lewyn. I wish to remind _you_ of the same. Elia may be your niece, but your oath is to King Aerys, and Rhaegar is his son. Elia is but Rhaegar's consort, and your loyalty to him must come before her.”

Lewyn fumes. “I know that, but to see her humiliated before the entire realm was more than I could stand. She has never wronged him, yet he...”

“Not your place to judge.” Ser Gerold proclaims, with finality.

After that there is talk of scheduling and daily assignments, the king's various paranoid and peculiar orders that they have to meet, and a discussion of possible threats to the royal family and how best they might be countered. Jaime does his best to pay attention. He doesn't want to shame himself, and that means learning all the details of his duties as quickly as possible.

“Which brings us to our last order of business,” Ser Gerold says, “which is that Ser Jaime has not yet been _properly_ initiated into our order.” A wave of smirks and snickers pass through his Sworn Brothers, and the edge of Ser Gerold's mouth curls upward. Jaime has never seen any hint of wickedness in him before, but now there it is.

Jaime mislikes that, but he will not let them see fear. He will show them that he is strong, as worthy to wear the white as any of them. 

“So,” says Ser Gerold slyly (who would have thought such a man could be sly?), “who is going to go first?”

“Not you,” says Prince Lewyn immediately. “You can go _last,_ once the rest of us have loosened him up. We're _not_ going to have a repeat of what happened with Jonothor. _I'll_ go first.”

“You Martells,” Ser Jonothor says, “have no patience. Better to start with a steady hand. I'll go first.”

“Or,” Ser Arthur says, “we could duel for it. Or we could just skip the duel and let the man whom we all know would win anyway go first. I knighted him, it's only fitting that _I_ should be first to show him what it means to serve.”

Something about Arthur's voice seems to cow them all. Jaime turns to him and gives him a knowing smile.

“Is this one of those initiations where you all take turns beating me up to test my mettle?” He crosses his arms and puffs out his chest. “I can take whatever you can dish out.”

“That's good to hear,” Ser Oswell drawls, “because this is one of those initiations where you get fucked in the arse.”

Jaime laughs. He does his best to make it as good-natured a laugh as possible, of course they are going to rib him and make japes at his expense, and he has to take it in stride... but then he realizes that no one else is laughing. They are all looking at him as if...

...Oh gods, no. They mean it.

Jaime jumps out of his chair as if it is on fire and runs for his swordbelt, but he is tackled from behind and slammed against the wall instead.

“Best if you don't resist,” he hears Ser Arthur whisper gently in his ear, his body pressed to Jaime's backside, something else _(oh gods)_ pressing against his arse. “It will go easier if you submit, and hurt like the seven hells if you fight.”

Jaime answers that by hitting him in the face with the back of his head. He struggles to throw him off, but Arthur tightens his grip, and the next thing he knows there are other hands pulling him away from the door, grabbing his tunic and pulling it up, grasping at the hard muscle underneath. Another hand goes down his breeches and gropes his arse, and another unlaces his breeches and yanks on his cock.

Jaime lets out a cry, arching his back as he struggles to get free, but it is no good. The next thing he knows he is pinned facedown on the white carpet and someone is pulling off his boots. Then come his breeches and smallclothes, dragged off to expose his intimate parts to their lust. Jaime has never felt so unprotected and vulnerable.

“You can't do this,” he pleads, trying his best to sound brave. “I am a knight, not a boy whore.”

“You are a Knight of the Kingsguard,” says Ser Gerold patiently. The Lord Commander is standing, but has not moved from his place at the head of the table. It's the other four who are stripping him. “As such, you will do as you are told. And right now I am telling you to be a good boy and refrain from struggling while Ser Arthur takes your maidenhood.”

 _Cersei had my maidenhood._ “I'm also a Lannister of Casterly Rock,” he points out testily. “When my father –”

“You have no father,” Ser Gerold corrects him. “Only your king, and your Brothers. You belong to us now, and Lord Tywin has no claim on you. On any part of you.” There is hunger in his eyes now. “You belong to us, body and soul. _All_ your body, and all your soul. This is to drive that in.”

“Make me feel it deep inside?” Jaime offers sardonically.

“Precisely,” Lewyn says cheerfully as he pulls Jaime's tunic over his head. Ser Jonothor pulls Jaime's arms out in front of him, while Ser Oswell sits on his back so they can get it off. When it does come off, Jaime is naked.

And so is Ser Arthur, he realizes. When he looks over his shoulder he sees the Sword of the Morning, muscled like a statue of the Warrior, his cock erect and ready, his purple eyes raking lustily over Jaime's exposed body, sending an involuntary frission through Jaime. Arthur wants this, wants Jaime, and Jaime is afraid, as hard as he tries to hide it. He is going to be fucked, those hungry purple eyes are telling him that, and his sudden certainty that he can do nothing to stop it is a blow in his heart. He is naked and without his sword, and there are five of them and only one of him.

“About time you saw my other sword,” Dayne teases him.

“We call it Evenfall,” Ser Oswell japes.

Ser Arthur ignores that; his hungry eyes seem able to see only Jaime. “Up on your hands and knees, Ser, and open your legs.”

Jaime can't believe he obeys, but he does. He drops his head and bites his lip as he feels the cool air on his arsehole. He hates to imagine how he must look.

He jerks when he feels a hand touch his arse. He cringes when he feels it squeeze. “There now, little brother,” Arthur murmurs reassuringly. Jaime finds himself thinking of Tyrion.

His reverie is interrupted when an oiled finger pushes into him. Jaime instinctively tries to push it back out again, and it hurts, it stings so much and now he's terrified of what a whole cock will feel like.

The finger pushes and pulls about inside him, and Jaime grips the carpet and tries not to make a sound, not to show weakness. “You're resisting,” Arthur says. He sighs. “I did tell you, that will only make it hurt more... yet you don't give in.” He pulls the finger out and puts two back in, pushing on the edges of the ring. 

Jaime yelps at that, but quickly regains his composure. “We Lannisters have a certain pride.”

“A pride we'll need to break you of,” says Ser Gerold disapprovingly. “Don't bother with any more fingering, Ser Arthur. By the look of you, you might spend before you even start. Take him.”

“I have more stamina than that, Lord Commander,” Ser Arthur offers courteously. Jaime feels something cold and hard press inside him, then a flood of oil. “But yes, as you say. Our lion needs to be tamed.”

Jaime braces himself, stiffening as Arthur's hands take hold of his hips. Then he feels the head press against his hole and rub around it. For a moment it feels rather pleasant, but then Evenfall starts to press inside him.

He grabs the carpet hard and grits his teeth. _I will not scream, I will not scream, I will not scream,_ even though it feels like a hot poker is being shoved up his arse instead of a cock. He can't quite believe that the thing is actually _in_ him, stretching him deep. He hears Ser Arthur let out a long sigh of pleasure.

 _“Aaaaaah, Jaime,”_ he breathes as he begins to thrust. Jaime's whole body breaks out in a cold sweat as he pants for breath. “You're so _tight,_ ooooooh, _yes,_ yes...”

Jaime glances over his shoulder and looks at Arthur Dayne's face. His every feature is lit up with pleasure and joy and desire, so much that Jaime almost can't begrudge him this, even though it hurts so much.

As he slides warmly in and out, purring as he goes, Arthur moves his hands up to Jaime's shoulders and squeezes them tightly as he picks up his pace, going sharper and faster as Jaime whimpers softly, and then he wraps his arms around Jaime's waist and rests his weight on him. The warmth of skin on skin, the weight pressing him down, and the moist heat of Ser Arthur's breath on the back of his neck is all strangely comforting, and Jaime closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

 _“Gods,”_ Ser Lewyn says, “you should see yourselves, both of you. I could spend in my breeches just watching,” he drops to his knees in front of Jaime and pulls his chin up, “but I'd sooner spend in that sweet mouth of yours.” He unlaces his breeches and lets out his big, tanned cock. He takes Jaime by the hair and pulls his face to it. “Suck me, golden boy.”

 _Boy,_ indeed. Jaime doesn't feel much like a knight now. He feels like a boy – a boy of fifteen, and oddly small. He takes it gingerly in his mouth – what he can of it, at least – and begins to suck, trying to imitate what Cersei did to him that sweet night in Eel Alley. Lewyn's cock is hot and hard and pulsing, and tastes musky. The Dornish prince groans as Jaime slides his tongue on the underside. He inhales and smells Martell's sweat, a man's musk mixed with the fragrance of Dornish spice. Jaime feels himself respond, just a little, as Arthur continues to thrust in and out of him. Now that is just absurd. _I miss you, Cersei._

The member twitches oddly in his mouth, and suddenly Lewyn grabs him by the ears and starts thrusting into his mouth, pressing against the back the his throat. Jaime gags and struggles to accommodate that suddenly rampaging beast, making indignant noises and batting his hands against Lewyn's knees in protest, but Prince Lewyn seems to pay him no mind.

“Suck me harder, little lion,” his voice rattles, low and husky with desire. “Like _that – auurrrh!”_

His regal Dornish head snaps back hard as he shoves it down Jaime's throat with a savage thrust and pours his seed down Jaime's gullet. Jaime fights hard against the urge to vomit. _I will not retch on the floor. I will not leave evidence on the carpet for the servants to notice and gossip about. I will not show weakness in this, I will not._

“Martells,” he hears Ser Jonothor say derisively. “What did I tell you? Done in no time at all.”

Lewyn only smirks at that, raising an eyebrow. “Our little brother has a talented tongue. Perhaps you'd like him to taste you next?”

Behind him, Ser Arthur finishes, sighing and gripping Jaime's waist with both hands as he spends himself. There is something oddly nice about that. As he softens, Jaime pushes him out, as easy as shitting. That pleases him, as it feels like a victory, however small.

Ser Jonothor is watching Arthur intently as he slowly gives Jaime another squeeze, then looks up at Darry and moves to the side under his gaze. Jonothor takes his place behind Jaime, grabs his legs, and flips him over onto his back.

“You're going to watch me as I plow you,” he says, as he pushes his cock inside.

He's bigger than Arthur, and it hurts, but Jaime grits his teeth and forces himself to meet the older knight's gaze, eyes full of defiance even as his body lies submissively beneath him. Ser Jonothor pumps steadily, slowly going deeper and deeper, and something about it is making Jaime hard. His breath grows ragged as he thrusts, brown eyes and green boring into each other, neither willing to blink.

Suddenly his gaze is blocked by Ser Oswell sitting down on his face. He's pleased to see that his cock is smaller than the others, smaller than Jaime's own. He smirks. “Am I to suck that little thing, Whent?”

“No,” Ser Oswell smirks back at him, “you're to lick my arse. Make sure you get your tongue deep in there.” He brings his anus over Jaime's mouth and grinds it down. _Ewww..._ but a glance at Ser Gerold is all it takes for him to know he can't refuse. He flicks out his tongue and licks the ring. It's wrinkled and puckered and there's a sour note to the taste which he tries not to think about. Whent grinds against him, clenching and unclenching, arsehole and mouth kissing obscenely. “Tongue,” he commands, and Jaime pushes his tongue through the hole and it tastes... oh, this is disgusting, but he tries not to think about it, he closes his eyes and tries to pretend it's Cersei's cunt, though she tasted far sweeter than this. Oswell grabs himself and strokes his little cock, snickering as he enjoys himself. Then he gets up, points it straight at Jaime's face, and shoots his seed right between his eyes.

Ser Oswell laughs and Ser Jonothor smirks as Jaime winces and wipes it off. Darry is taking his sweet time, pushing his legs up a little more to go in deeper. Jaime grips the carpet and pushes back, twisting around Darry's plow to bring him off faster, breathing hard with the labor of it. Ser Gerold is the only one left, and then he'll be done. Back and forth and side to side they slide on each other, and then Jonothor's eyes go wide and he sows his seed.

But no sooner has Darry gotten up than Dayne is taking his place.

“Again?”

“How not?” Arthur replies as he enters him for the second time. “The life of a knight of the Kingsguard is not one of pleasure, Jaime. Yet here you are, golden and beautiful, naked and spread open for us. Who could resist taking you again, and again, and again?”

That scares him. “How many times am I going to get fucked!?”

“As many times as we want to.” Ser Arthur replies.

“Until we've all drained our balls completely dry, he means.” Ser Oswell grins.

Jaime remembers how many times he took Cersei, before his cock stopped cooperating. And there was only one of him then. _Gods, please, no._

And so they fuck him, over and over, the four of them, and there's nothing Jaime can do but obey and let them do whatever they want. He's taken in his arse and in his mouth, pinned on the carpet, bent over the table, standing, pressed against the wall. Ser Arthur seems insatiable, taking Jaime as many times as the other three put together. Joining the Kingsguard is looking like a worse idea than ever. _If Cersei had known that I would have to do this, she never would have suggested it._ But now he's said the words and donned the white cloak, and there is no going back, and he's naked and hard and drenched in sweat, and his arsehole is gaping open and dripping seed down his legs.

Ser Arthur lies on his back on the carpet and pulls Jaime on top of him, guiding him onto his cock. “Move on me, now,” he whispers, giving Jaime's arse a light smack. Jaime is lightheaded and he wants to go down to his cell and chug down a whole bottle of wine and sleep, but he presses his hands on Ser Arthur's muscled chest and does as he is told. He doesn't notice Ser Oswell until the man suddenly grabs his arse with one hand and slides a finger into his hole next to Ser Arthur's cock. Jaime yelps. “What are you doing!?”

Ser Oswell grins wickedly. “I think you've been stretched wide enough to take two at once now.” He adds a second finger.

“No,” Jaime breathes, trying to sound brave, “No, don't, _don't,_ I –“

But of course Ser Oswell doesn't listen to him, none of them have since the whole thing started, and the next thing he knows Whent is joining Dayne inside him, and he's seeing stars and whimpering as he's opened painfully wide. Ser Arthur groans and bucks his hips, his eyes alight with desire. The two of them thrust against one another, one going in as the other goes out, moaning in pleasure as Jaime whimpers in pain, and then Ser Oswell shifts his rhythm and both cocks go in at once, and Jaime cries out.

“Oh, this is too much,” says Lewyn. “Come, Ser Jonothor. He needs something better to do with his mouth.” The two of them come round, and Darry grabs Jaime's hair, and together they stuff their cocks into his mouth. There's something wretchedly humiliating about being used by four men at once, and Jaime's heart sinks even as his cock jumps once again. Blood rushes in his ears as he tries to suck, but they're just too unwieldy to handle and he can't focus on pleasing them when his arse is getting so roughly abused. Suddenly Lewyn grabs his head and shoves his cock down Jaime's throat, then pulls out to let Ser Jonothor do the same. Jaime gags, but looking up sees no pity in their eyes, just lust, which somehow arouses him even more. Arthur grabs Jaime's waist to steady him as he and Oswell start pounding away like madmen and Jaime's head is spinning and his cock is weeping and then Ser Arthur cries out, and Ser Lewyn follows him on Jaime's tongue. A moment later Oswell and Jonothor come too, and waves of relief and disappointment come down over Jaime at once. He falls off of Arthur onto the floor, lying on his side and panting for breath.

“Enough,” says Ser Gerold, with authority. “My turn.” Jaime turns to look, and sees that he is naked, white fuzz on his sinewy chest, very well-built for a man his age, and down there – 

_Seven save me._

Gods, but Ser Gerold's cock is _massive._ Jaime doesn't know how he's going to survive having that monster inside him. Apparently, they call him the White Bull because he's _hung_ like one. And to think, he thought having Arthur and Oswell in there at the same time was bad.

It only seems to grow larger as the Lord Commander saunters toward him. The terrible inevitability of what he's about to endure sinks over him like a black cloud of doom and crushes his will. “Please,” he whispers.

Ser Gerold only smirks as he kneels beside Jaime. “It's not for you to ask for anything,” he intones, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying desire as he looks down at Jaime's sodden, gaping anus. “Only to give, and to do as you are told. Now open those pretty white legs of yours, as wide as they will go, and turn your arse up into the air for me. I'll use you as pleases me, and when I am done you will lick me clean and thank me with all your best courtesies.”

 _You are cruel, Ser Gerold._ The thought of surrendering his last scrap of dignity fills him with despair, but Jaime knows he is without hope here. He assumes the desired position and tries to quell his panic. He has never felt so lowly.

Ser Gerold grabs his cheeks roughly and forces his gigantic manhood into Jaime's little hole, and Jaime can't stop himself from screaming this time as he's forced so far open, stretched to the breaking point, and it hurts so much and he's so full, so full of hot pulsing cock, and Ser Gerold grunts like an animal and fucks him with no mercy, pounding away ruthlessly in Jaime's poor body and Jaime feels like even less than a boy, like a slave, and the Lord Commander has all the power and he has none at all, not even to stop his cock from jumping hard as that monstrous cock rubs hard against his inner walls. Blood rushes through his ears and his vision swims as the wet heat courses in him, pleasure and pain twining about each other like two coiled serpents rising, _rising,_ and then Jaime screams at the top of his lungs and flails wildly as he goes flying over the edge into oblivion, bursting into a thousand pieces, slain by the sword inside him.

He doesn't know how long he's blacked out for, but when he wakes, he opens his eyes to see purple ones, looking kindly back at him. He's lying on his back on the table, he realizes, and Ser Arthur is holding his legs up, and fucking him, face to face. It does not hurt. Far from it. Jaime breathes a sleepy, contented exhale, and wraps his legs around his lover's waist to pull him closer in, tensing his ring around Evenfall to make it better for him.

Arthur's smile is one of the purest, kindest joy, and he leans in and kisses Jaime on the lips. _None of them kissed me before._ “You did well, Jaime,” he says. “Your courage today will not soon be forgotten. Not by any of us.”

“Courage?” he asks. “I thought the point was obedience.”

“The point was to break you and see what you became. We all could see that you were afraid and in pain, yet you faced your duty.” He twists and shifts within Jaime with a sigh of pleasure. “And we won't forget how well you pleased us... even though your beauty made that part easy.”

When Arthur is done, Jaime's sworn brothers gather around him and lift him up off the table. They carry him in their arms, skin on skin, down to his cell and tuck him into bed, smiling, complimenting and congratulating him. Jaime feels much better now; he made it through, he survived, and now he is surrounded by his Brothers, and truly one of them. He belongs to them, and they to him. As he drifts off to sleep, he hears a voice, speaking with the kindest authority.

“Welcome to the Kingsguard, Ser Jaime.”

~~~

He thinks of it often, in later years. Of his Brothers, all gone now, who sealed him to them with flesh and seed, sweat and moaning. The old initiation dies with them; Ser Barristan never speaks of it and welcomes their five new brothers without any ceremony beyond the public oath. 

No doubt he has his reasons; Jaime suspects Ser Gerold's choice to leave him out of Jaime's initiation was no accident. Nevertheless, he wonders if the new Lord Commander is making a mistake. This Kingsguard has nothing like the bond that the old one had. Though admittedly, that bond didn't stop him from becoming the Kingslayer. _Or the Queenfucker, for that matter._ He never tells Cersei about it – it's the Kingsguard's secret – but every now and then, when she is on her hands and knees and he is in her, he closes his eyes and imagines that she is his new Brother, and he is making her one of the Kingsguard, proving her worthy to wear the white.


End file.
